


Can You Knot

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: A Very Supernatural Starsky & Hutch [8]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Here's the Naughty Stuff Folks, Knotting, M/M, Monsterfucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safe As Possible Sex, Smut, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sex, sex in werewolf form with previous consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: They pick a day close to the new moon, when Hutch is more aware of himself and the wolf’s hold is relatively loose.“I’m not saying I’ll definitely be able to snap out of it if something goes wrong, but I’m saying I probably will,” Hutch explains, and checks his watch. The day synched up nicely with a day they got off work at three, so even though they’re both tired from starting work at five in the morning at a stakeout where nothing happened, they have the afternoon and evening to themselves. “Not that anything’s going to go wrong, probably."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you skip this one in the series you won't miss anything but hot werewolf sex.

They pick a day where close to the new moon, when Hutch is more aware of himself and the wolf’s hold is relatively loose. 

“I’m not saying I’ll definitely be able to snap out of it if something goes wrong, but I’m saying I probably will,” Hutch explains, and checks his watch. The day synched up nicely with a day they got off work at three, so even though they’re both tired from starting work at five in the morning at a stakeout where nothing happened, they have the afternoon and evening to themselves. “Not that anything’s going to go wrong, probably. But, uh, I can’t turn until after seven tonight, so you want to go get something to eat first, or take a nap?” 

Starsky is driving, and they’re headed to Hutch’s apartment, because he’s gone to the grocery store more recently and his bed is less likely to get destroyed irreparably if a human and a werewolf have sex on it. “Let’s get something to eat. And since my chances are gonna be somewhat limited later tonight, we could make out for a little while after. I’ll even brush my teeth first if you feel fussy.”

Hutch is tense about this, and even though they haven’t said anything, he looks around like he might get caught out for even thinking about it, for being vaguely  _ excited  _ for it. Starsky took the werewolf-sized dildo like a champ last week, knot inflated and everything—and, God, looked so blissed out like he was  _ enjoying  _ it—so Hutch is out of excuses. 

And now the opportunity’s here, Hutch has a pretty well-ordered idea about how the night should go, though he’s trying not to be overbearing or demanding about it, since that’s what the wolf is going to be later tonight. This is for Starsky, and for the wolf, so Hutch’s preferences shouldn’t matter. 

“Relax,” Starsky says, sensing how wound up Hutch is. “It’s gonna go fine. We’ll go home, put the thing in, and by the time you can change, we’ll both be half out of our minds, I’m sure.”

He reaches out and takes Hutch’s hand, gives it a squeeze. “Love you, buddy.”

Hutch blushes, equal parts grateful and embarrassed that Starsky is so forthcoming and matter of fact about this.

“I love you, too, Starsk,” he says with a sigh, relaxing marginally, though he's still in planning mode. “What do you want to eat before we start the four-hour foreplay? We could go breakfast for dinner? You want French toast or pancakes? I've got chicken sausage, plenty of eggs, we could have fruit salad, champagne…”

Starsky laughs. “I’m not picky, but a late breakfast sounds great. Pancakes, as long as they’re not those buckwheat things....”

He endures Hutch’s glare and parks them in front of Hutch’s place, grabbing his duffel out of the back seat and following Hutch upstairs. He grabs the key off the top of the door frame after Hutch puts it back up there, carrying it inside with them in a fairly pointed ‘do not disturb’ indicator, and gives Hutch a ‘1 minute’ gesture as he excuses himself into the bathroom to make some basic preparations. He’s getting used to moving around with the plug in, and he likes the slow build of anticipation it creates more than he thought he would. He finds Hutch in the kitchen and puts his arms around his partner’s middle, swaying along with his movement.

“The apron’s a nice touch,” Starsky tells him, tugging the strings. 

Hutch likes the apron, so it's the only thing he's wearing when Starsky emerges. It does help him feel looser, more excited about the evening—though nothing helps like the bright spot that is Starsky, a little sheen of sweat on his brow and taking a wider than usual stance. But Starsky did put his clothes back on, so Hutch says, “Now I feel overdressed.”

He gets his arms around Starsky, though, warming up to him, and reaches behind him to squeeze his ass and—like there’s any doubt—trace a fingertip around the firm base of the plug between his cheeks. “You know, nothing says we can’t get a little tipsy and fool around first.” 

“You got my hopes up for breakfast,” Starsky reminds. “Though you’re an extremely brave man to cook sausage in that getup.”

He kisses Hutch, leaning into it, taking his sweet time with it and enjoying this part of Hutch now just as much as he plans on enjoying his other half later. “But I like that idea. Pour the wine, Garcon.”

“It’s  _ garçon _ ,” Hutch says, correcting Starsky’s pronunciation by way of teasing him. He adds champagne to orange juice in regular wine glasses because he doesn’t have champagne flutes, and hands one to Starsky. “I figure I’m going to be naked eventually anyway, might as well get started early.” 

He’s closed all the blinds and curtains so they have plenty of privacy, and kisses Starsky again while he tastes like champagne and orange juice, and palms his ass possessively. “Okay, you sit down and let me watch you squirm while I cook.” 

“Do I squirm extra or just the normal amount?” Starsky asks, but he supposes the answer depends on how burnt he wants his food to be, so he settles at the table with one leg tucked under him to keep the pressure from getting to be too much while he waits, shifting every so often. “You know, the view from the rear ain’t so bad from over here, either.”

Something about those apron strings hanging over Hutch’s bare ass is both extremely alluring and very domestic and normal-seeming, for a certain definition of normal. Starsky is fascinated by them, and finds himself shifting a little bit back and forth anyway. 

Hutch turns and eyes how Starsky is rocking in his seat, and grins to himself. His cock is already mildly interested in just knowing that Starsky’s got that toy inside him opening him up, though the apron is more or less keeping it down to a reasonable half-bulge. He doesn’t miss a beat, though he  _ almost _ forgets to add the buttermilk, and “accidentally” adds some flax seed and wheat germ into the mix— 

“No cheating!”

“You won’t even taste it, with the amount of syrup you put on!” he defends, still grinning (not sorry at all), when Starsky looks like he might stand up and come after him. “You want chocolate chips or blueberries? How about some nice toasted almonds, huh?” 

He has to turn back, though, to see to the sausage, which is splattering enough to sting his back (and backside) when he’s turned around. 

“Blueberries and almonds,” Starsky says, finding a compromise, and then chuckling a little as Hutch jumps when the grease hits him in the back. “See?”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Hutch says, and presently sets a stack of flapjacks and sausage and scrambled eggs in front of them. It’s a feasts because Hutch went all out on everything—cheese on the eggs, powdered sugar on the pancakes, and the sausages are perfectly browned and smell heavenly (and Starsky doesn’t even complain that they’re chicken). He tops off their mimosas and slides his chair close to Starsky before sitting down, only slightly regretting the no-pants thing on the wicker seat. 

The dinner is amazing, even if they both eat really fast because they’re distracted by each other and in a rush, and Starsky doesn’t complain once about the distinct flaxy flavor of his pancakes, which he  _ does _ notice, irregardless of syrup. 

“Is this the part where we pretend to make small talk?” Starsky asks, when they both slow down a little. 

Hutch grins and takes a suggestive bite of his sausage link. “No, this is the part where we flirt shamelessly, to make anyone embarrassed to know us.” 

He laughs and blushes, embarrassed himself, and almost relaxes a little further. Starsky seems at ease, and happy, which helps, so Hutch has the confidence to lean in close and lower his voice, “Or I can start giving orders and we can start the real show.” 

Starsky just takes advantage of Hutch’s newly-close chair and drops his hand into Hutch’s lap right over his crotch through the apron, with a knowing look. “Who says you’re giving the orders today? I mean, unless you’re gonna be  _ barking _ orders…”

Hutch’s glare makes the pun worth it and Starsky gropes him firmly through the apron as he finishes his mimosa, feeling warm and excited and distracted before he starts heading for Hutch’s room, leaving the dishes behind for later. 

“Believe it or not, that line did cross my mind, only I had the sense not to say it,” Hutch says, following Starsky to his bedroom. He did clean up a little that morning in nervous anticipation, though the sheets that are due a wash anyway he left on the bed. 

“You and your good sense,” Starsky says fondly, turning around to back toward the bed.

At that, Hutch grabs Starsky’s hips and tugs him into a hard and hungry kiss. He's beginning to let go of his inhibitions, humming half-promises between kisses. “I want you so fucked out and loose you won't even feel the wolf's dick. I want to have you moaning in my bed until you don't know your name anymore. I want to take you apart and not put you back until morning. You gonna let me do that to you? And then let the wolf have you?”

Starsky gets his arms around Hutch’s neck and shoulders, leaning into each kiss and grinding their bodies together as he hums approval. “Yeah? Gonna take two of you to keep up with me, anyway.“

Hutch laughs, grazing his teeth over Starsky’s jawline in the next kiss. “Probably.”

Starsky pulls the loop of the apron off over Hutch’s head, and then slides his hand down to palm Hutch’s ass and push their hips together, giving them one last not-quite-anything-but-clumsy rub through the thin fabric still barely tied onto Hutch, feeling the way moving against Hutch moves the toy inside him and for a moment it’s so good, Starsky just leans his head against Hutch’s shoulder and grinds on him like a teenager, his body getting warm and ready in anticipation. Finally, he remembers himself enough to untie the string, to tug the apron out from between them without really moving their bodies apart, and then it’s skin on skin and Starsky gets his hand on Hutch’s cock to stroke him as he backs up toward the bed.

“Yeah,” Starsky purrs, more approval at the whole situation than any kind of comment, before he remembers Hutch’s earlier question, and leans up to kiss him again, feeling just a little dizzy from champagne and all the good things happening in his body. “Yeah, I’m gonna let you do that to me, Hutch. Just you, and me, and you again. C’mon.” 

Hutch almost hurts from how sweet Starsky is, how open and permissive and  _ inviting _ . No girl or man he's ever been with has been so warm to him, to both sides of him, to all of him, and Hutch nudges Starsky backward until his knees hit the bed. Instead of sitting, Starsky lets himself fall flat on his back, and Hutch sweeps his trousers off him immediately. 

“I see you didn't wear underwear,” Hutch chuckles, admiring Starsky and all his manliness, thighs coiled with muscle, dark hair, thick cock, and then the dark plug with the flared base in his ass. Finally, Hutch can't just stand there any longer, and slides on top of Starsky, rocking their hips together. “God, you're gorgeous like this. Gorgeous, and all mine. And that's not even the wolf talking, yet.”

He's about to get even more possessive, but Starsky knows that. He doesn’t mind it, when the alternative is that they’re both denying themselves what they really want in order to pursue some ideal of how they should be as partners or lovers or as one werewolf and one human. Starsky grins, grunting as Hutch pushes their hips together and then kisses Hutch’s nose. “Have I ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?”

Hutch is briefly surprised by that, and he blushes, and smiles a bit shyly. “Sure that’s not just the champagne talking?”

“No, it’s true.” Starsky likes a lot of parts of Hutch, but his eyes when they’re intense are some of Starsky’s favourite features. He rolls his hips up, getting his hand back on Hutch’s cock to give it a long, slow squeeze for effect. 

Hutch groans, now, lost in sensations and ready to go off any second. “Starsk—wanna—”

He could laugh at himself: he’s still got lips but he has forgotten how to talk, so he sits up and flips Starsky’s legs up over his shoulders and slicks himself with his own precome—it’s not enough, though, but Starsky passes him the lube without him having to ask. 

They’ve both been declared clean by their doctors, though mostly they still use condoms for easy cleanup. Hutch doesn’t think tonight they need to be worried about that. 

Starsky reaches down, starting to work the plug free even as Hutch’s hands move in to help, and for a brief moment it’s just so much that even popping it loose makes him gasp and shift, and he barely has a minute to catch his breath before Hutch is starting to push in, which both of them are impatient for, and Starsky is loose and ready for him, offering no resistance as Hutch pushes in, and he sighs with it, like it makes him complete to finally be this close to Hutch. 

“Yeah,” Starsky breathes. “Yeah, Hutch,  _ please _ .”

Hutch covers the plea with a kiss, getting one hand in Starsky’s hair and the other on his cock, though Starsky almost doesn't seem to need it, which will be good for when Hutch doesn't have hands. He's not rough but he is forceful, manipulating Starsky exactly how he wants him, his entire focus obsessed with everything about Starsky: where every part of him is, how he's breathing, how he smells, when he groans low and when his voice pitches up in a strangled cry, how his body splits for him, how he both tenses and relaxes, and how achingly, fairy-tale beautiful he is in pleasure. 

“Love you, I love you, gonna make you mine,” Hutch pants, rolling his hips in short motions aimed at his partner’s prostate. He kisses him full of teeth this time, and bites Starsky’s lips until they’re red, and rubs the vein on the underside of Starsky’s cock until he’s coming, and Hutch slams into him a few more times until he’s over the edge, too, and they collapse, exhausted messy. 

“Love you too,” Starsky says, sagging down into the mess without regard for any of it. “‘M already yours.”

But Hutch isn’t done with him, and he tips Starsky onto his stomach and nudges his legs apart. His hole is red but uninjured, slick with lube and come, and Hutch bends down to lave it with his tongue, massaging the muscles until Starsky is groaning. When he replaces his tongue with an even larger plug, one with a larger bulb and a slightly wider base, he gives Starsky a moment to get used to it and lays down beside him, kissing his shoulder softly. 

Starsky breathes out, letting Hutch move him but he leans back into Hutch, kissing him with bruised lips, just rubbing their bodies together a little for the contact, slow and unhurried. He rolls over, so he can rub Hutch’s shoulders, and just enjoy touching him for a while while the toy holds him open. He rubs Hutch’s lower back firmly, then manages to paw up the bottle of lube from the mattress where they’re practically laying on it, and gets enough on his hands so that he can finger Hutch in return, just teasing into him in a slow, attentive way.

“It’s not gonna affect things too much if I tire you out now, right?” Starsky teases, grinning against Hutch’s mouth. 

“You can try your best,” Hutch responds, grunting softly, enjoying the slow fingering open he's getting, and he wraps his arms around Starsky, too. “I'm gonna be a new person in a few hours. Don't tire  _ yourself _ out.”

The tease is a little warning, but Hutch lets Starsky take control now that his appetite is sated, and runs his fingertips through Starsky’s hair lovingly. “Though to a certain extent you kinda just have to lie there and take it.” 

“You say that like I’m not looking forward to it,” Starsky says, plunging two fingers into Hutch to bear down on his prostate, rubbing slow, incessant circles that make Hutch grunt and shift. “You can make it up to me by letting me have my way with you some other time. We got all these toys now, I can show you what it’s like, right?” 

Hutch is intrigued by the idea. “Are you, now? Oh, Jesus, Starsk!”

Hutch gasps as Starsky massages his prostate, hitching one leg up over Starsky’s hips and gripping his shoulders. It's too soon but it feels too good. “ _ Oh _ , yeah.”

Starsky kisses him again, a long time and sweetly until they both have to breathe and he can feel Hutch getting hard again, so he reaches down with his other hand to really work on Hutch this time, before he shoves Hutch over rudely onto his back so he can crouch between his thighs and get his mouth on Hutch’s dick, like he’s fully planning on testing his stamina just as much as Hutch said he was going to test Starsky’s. 

“Fuck!” Hutch grunts as Starsky overturns them—unfazed by the huge plug, somehow—and starts blowing him while still fingering him open. Hutch tries to push him off, weakly, but it's no good when he also clearly wants it, curling his fingers into his partner's hair again. “Starsky, oh God.”

Starsky hums an answer, soft and approving, around the head of Hutch’s cock. He doesn’t back off in the least, pushing his body for more, working with both his hands until Hutch is starting to come apart, and then he eases back, stops touching Hutch altogether, lets him ease back from the edge as he kisses the inside of Hutch’s thigh and waits, patiently.

“No—fuck, Starsky, damn it!” Hutch snaps, reaching for his dick, but Starsky grabs his hands just enough until he’s past the tipping point. “ _ Starsky _ .” 

“I learned a couple things,” Starsky murmurs, kissing each of Hutch’s hipbones, waiting for his breathing to even out before he starts right back up to teasing him again, working him toward the edge with his mouth and fingers like release is a set of stairs to climb. 

Hutch can see where this is going, as Starsky releases his hands again to tease him, and Hutch slams his head back against the mattress, chuckling a little manically. “Oh, I’m gonna get you back for this. A werewolf never forgets.” 

“That’s an elephant,” Starsky says, “Not even the same number of syllables or letters or anything. “

Then his mouth and talented fingers are busy again, and Starsky teases over Hutch’s balls, rolling them gently before he gets the head of Hutch’s cock back into his mouth and starts teasing him toward the edge again, fully intending to keep the process going until Hutch begs for it. 

“Starsk, Starsk,” Hutch says, tugging on his hair and pushing his shoulders, but Starsky isn’t getting the message. 

“ _ David _ ,” he groans, and flings one leg up and over to press low on his back with his foot. “Starsky, please just let me—” 

It’s raising the hair on his arms, how much he wants this, raising his hackles, and he feels like if they were on Starsky’s bed with that stupid ceiling mirror, he would be able to see his eyes flickering yellow. Starsky’s bringing out something  _ wild  _ in him, and it’s glorious instead of terrifying. The wolf is all but climbing the walls to get out, even though the moon is so slender, and it’s because they both love and want Starsky. How could they not? 

Hutch’s hips buck, and he’s close; he’s going to hold him Starsky place this time if he has to. 

Starsky starts to draw back, but as Hutch curses and scrabbles for a tighter hold, Starsky jabs against his prostate and rubs, easing Hutch from his mouth into his fist so that he can see how far up Hutch’s own chest his release reaches when he rockets over the edge, like some kind of gleeful science experiment. He makes a pleased sound, working hutch through it and watching every second. 

Hutch screams several profanities and is grateful his neighbors won't be home yet. His orgasm is half-ruined until Starsky takes him in a fist, and then Hutch sees white and is oddly confident Starsky could wring another one out of him if he wanted to. As he lays there, panting desperately, his chest striped in come, he laughs a little and tugs at Starsky’s hand. “Starsky, Jesus, you're amazing. Get up here.”

“That’s something to watch,” Starsky says, but he obliges Hutch, smearing their bodies together again, aware of every movement with that huge plug in. “You coming apart just for me.”

“Come here,” Hutch says again, warmly, arms and legs going around Starsky and kissing him. His eyes are half-closed, and this time Hutch just wants to sleep, to wait for the wolf to wake up, and he's too tired to be anxious about this or what could go wrong.

He reaches down to touch the plug inside Starsky, not pressing on it but just running his fingertips around the rim. “Doesn't hurt, does it?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t want to try to walk around too far with it, but I’ve gotten used to it.” Starsky says, shifting, rolling his hips against Hutch a little bit now that he’s starting to get hard again himself. He shifts over the top of Hutch, both of them smeared and messy. But he’s not so keyed up he can’t put his head down on Hutch’s shoulder and breathe slow, until they’re both drowsing into a nap that feels like it’s barely holding together with the way both of them are anticipating what happens when they wake up. The champagne helps, anyway. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hutch dozes, and wakes with Starsky dead asleep on top of him, his dick still hard between both of them. He chuckles, but it’s a temptation he can’t resist, and Hutch has just...stopped resisting everything, this close to a changeable time—he doesn’t look at a clock but he knows it’s soon—so he strokes Starsky as much as he can reach, kissing his temple and his messy hair softly, trying not to wake him. He wonders how many times Starsky can come in one evening, and he hopes it’s more than twice. 

Starsky groans and shifts his hips, huffing out warm air against Hutch’s collarbone, but he wakes up slowly anyway, keyed up and anticipatory. He shifts again, and then eases up onto his knees to give Hutch room to work and pursues another kiss. “‘M ready, Hutch.”

He gives Hutch a cocky grin, which fades into a gasp as Hutch keeps stroking him, and Starsky guesses he can be patient for a little while longer while Hutch is distracting him like this. It doesn’t take long, Starsky’s body is eager for release, not just this one but the next, too, though he knows normally after getting off twice he’d be ready to just lay down and sleep through the night. This pours out of him slow, into Hutch’s fist as he gasps and rolls his hips to feel not just Hutch touching him, but the way the plug shifts and moves inside him.

“Oh my God, you’re beautiful,” Hutch says, easing Starsky down onto his side and kissing him, feeling like Starsky has already given him everything and wants to give him a lot more. “Hang on, okay? I’m gonna—gonna get everything set up.” 

Hutch throws a blanket over Starsky and tugs a pillow under his head, and leaves him with a kiss. 

Hutch himself is a little sore, but has walked it off by the time he returns with two wet washcloths—one he uses to clean them up a bit and then toss in the hamper, and another to leave by the nightstand for Starsky to use later. He kisses Starsky again, and rolls him over a bit to remove the plug and re-coat it in plenty of lube before replacing it with a minimum of teasing, and then kisses Starsky on the back of the neck, all the while humming to himself—his newest song since Starsky got tired of “Black Bean Soup”—though Hutch isn’t sure  _ how _ …

“I’m gonna go clean up the kitchen, you just go back to sleep,” Hutch whispers, patting Starsky’s shoulder. “Since neither of us will want to do anything later.” 

“Hutch, are you gonna wash dishes  _ naked? _ ” Starsky mutters, like cleaning up the kitchen is the last thing he wants to care about  _ now _ , but he doesn’t want to get up to stop his partner, so he just resigns himself to clean dishes. At least until he hears one thunk to the floor, and then he sighs, rolling his eyes and shifting over. Hutch is distracted, and Starsky’s ready, and he doesn’t know what’s taking so long already except he knows better than to rush Hutch and his nerves. 

Hutch is doing  _ fine _ , or that’s what he tells himself as he puts the last of the dishes in the drying rack and suddenly trades his thumbs for claws. 

Now,  _ that  _ hasn’t happened on a crescent-moon in a very long time. 

But he’s on all fours, claws clattering against the linoleum, with a lucky mug on the floor still in good condition, and then Starsky appears in the doorway looking sleepily like he’s about to admonish Hutch for...something. Something not important. Human stuff. Not as important as how elated the wolf is to see Starsky. 

He yips once, exuberant, and then drops his front half to the ground and wags his tail, and jumps up again and plants his front legs on Starsky’s shoulders to lick his face. 

He...wants to play, Starsky realizes. Starsky reaches up and ruffles the wolf’s fur, smiling as Hutch licks his face. He doesn’t much feel like getting down on all fours and fully wrestling the wolf while naked and with a sizeable thing up his ass, but he does consent to a game of tug that quickly devolves into belly rubs and a little bit of roughhousing. Okay, a lot of roughhousing, and Hutch’s dishrag is never going to be the same, but Starsky doesn’t mind. It’s been a while since it’s just been him and this side of Hutch, since Hutch is always so careful with himself.

“You can’t get mad at me later ‘cause I let you rip this dish towel in half,” Starsky tells him.

Hutch whines softly, and lets the dish towel go. Starsky’s sitting on the floor with him, leaning to one side, and Hutch licks his face again, knocking him over into the shag carpeting to lick his face in what he hopes is a more comfortable position for Starsky. He knows enough to know that Starsky won’t want to play chase, so Hutch is content to just lay with him like this. 

And wolf-Hutch  _ knows  _ what they’re going to do, it isn’t like he’s forgotten. But Starsky is precious and needs to be handled with care, and he is patient, and he’s a  _ werewolf _ , not some mindless beast, whatever the human part of him thinks about him. He rumbles appreciatively, lets Starsky fall against him, and mouths on Starsky’s jaw and neck a little playfully—the way human-Hutch likes to kiss him, the way he might start a play-fight with another wolf. 

Maybe if Starsky weren’t so uncomfortable… Hutch thinks, nosing around his asshole to try to remove the plug. That’s not necessary anymore, surely? 

Starsky agrees, and seems to sense the mood the wolf is in is frisky in a different way than immediately expected, so he lays back, straightening out to make removal a little easier, and then nudges Hutch’s very cold nose away—”Alright! That’s not helping it’s just  _ cold! _ ”— to ease the toy free. He’s still slick and loose and probably will be for a little while, but now he can wrestle without feeling like there’s something sizeable nudging all his innards while he does. When he’s done and the toy is set aside, Starsky gets his arms around Hutch’s neck and wrestles him over, then gets wrestled back over in turn. Hutch has fewer thumbs, but he’s heavier. Starsky has better leverage, and when they’re playing, Hutch’s teeth can’t level the playing field.

Yes, this is what Hutch has wanted—just Starsky, just all of him, with no concerns or hangups or  _ human  _ problems, and the human part of him in the back of his mind is beginning to understand that, finally. 

“You’re a great big huge lummox,” Starsky says, extremely fondly, as the wolf bowls him over and then finally entices Starsky to chase him in an impromptu game of tag which finally winds up with Starsky tackling Hutch onto the bedroom carpet. 

Hutch scratches the hell out of his carpet in a few places, and the linoleum even worse, but he doesn’t harm Starsky, and in fact flops over and howls pitifully when Starsky tackles him, hamming it up so Starsky will feel good about himself—though he’s smirking, too, knowing Starsky knows. 

He gives him a slobbery kiss, suddenly, and bounds up onto the bed, tongue lolling out and tail wagging like exactly the big lummox Starsky was fool enough to fall in love with. He lowers his chest again, inviting Starsky for some bed-wrestling. 

When Starsky follows him up onto the bed, however, Hutch doesn’t give an inch, his werewolf strength dialed up from just playing, and tires Starsky out until he’s got him pinned—pinned and squirming in a way that Hutch definitely likes. Maybe Starsky plays this up a little, because he can sense how much Hutch likes it, shifting and squirming, his hands doing more to hold Hutch close than push him away.

“Ah, uh oh, I’ve been trapped by the big bad wolf,” Starsky says, his hands buried in fur and ruffling, getting all the good spots down Hutch’s back. “I guess I’m totally at your mercy now, huh?”

Hutch growls a little this time, in case he’s being made fun of (in this wolf and man are in agreement), or if Starsky isn’t taking this seriously enough, and bares his teeth just a little until Starsky looks more serious about this, until he hears Starsky’s heart go  _ ka-thump _ harder than normal. He  _ is  _ totally at Hutch’s mercy, just as Hutch is at his, because they are mates, and there’s nothing  _ play  _ about that. 

It’s surprising, because Starsky’s never really been the ‘hold-me-down’ sort before, but when it’s Hutch, there’s something electric and good about it. Just a little bit dangerous, but not in the way they face danger on the job or anything. He  _ trusts _ Hutch, knows Hutch has to trust him just as much to have given Starsky even this much. Given what they’ve been through together, this is maybe a little strange, but natural. 

He reaches up, gets both of his hands in the ruff of Hutch’s furry neck, and looks him in the eyes. “I’m good. You good?”

Hutch’s hunting eyes soften, pupils dilating back out again, and he makes a soft whining sound and licks Starsky’s cheek, settling warm and heavy atop him for  _ Yes _ . A contented sigh is next, as he settles in to lick Starsky, like he’s going to lick him head to toe, and gets both heavy paws on his chest so he can’t squirm away. 

Starsky just relaxes, letting the wolf get his way, since after all, he and Hutch both had theirs earlier, and ultimately it’s all going the way Starsky expected it to. For a minute he just lifts his hands over his head and lets Hutch work his rough, huge tongue all over him, but ultimately it feels good enough in some places and ticklish enough in others that he starts giving Hutch direction—mostly away from his armpits and sides. Finally he reaches down, low on Hutch’s belly and rubs, watching his reaction, but he seems pretty intent on licking Starsky all over and doesn’t seem to mind when Starsky gets a hand on his cock and starts coaxing it free of its sheath, just familiarizing the both of them with the sensation of his hand there in case he needs to help out later, being the only one of the two of them currently in possession of thumbs. 

Hutch rumbles approvingly at this, though it gives him pause. It’s a new sensation (he and Jeanie never did this,  _ certainly  _ never he and Vanessa), feeling a human hand on him, and it’s just as wonderful in this form as it is in human form. He’s not sure why he thought it would feel different. 

Not that he needs help—especially not when he starts licking lower and can smell and feel Starsky’s arousal, too—that smell is when his brain goes into instinct mode and the capacity for human thought fades like a howl lost on the wind. He’s swiping Starsky’s cock roughly with the flat of his tongue until he gets an idea that that hurts, but he growls away Starsky’s hands and starts licking more carefully, less hard, and then goes lower. 

He recognizes the flavor of the lube, but isn’t bothered by it, and whatever preparations his human self tried to make he quickly licks away, but he feels the muscle relaxing under his ministrations, and Starsky sounds and smells and feels aroused, so he keeps going, clawing at the sheets and nosing impatiently between his legs with increasingly frustrated-sounding growls. 

“Alright,” Starsky says, soothingly. “Alright, easy. Let me up.”

Hutch growls at him for real at that, but Starsky just rolls his eyes, slipping free from under his paws so that he can roll over, so he and Hutch can both get what they want. Hutch practically crashes into him, and Starsky reaches back and grabs him by the scruff to hold him steady while he gets into position, and then he lets go when he’s crouching, taking a long slow breath as Hutch goes back to licking him for a moment, and then tries to find a place to put his paws before Starsky shifts to get them around his hips. Hutch leans right on him, squeezes him around the middle and—

Starsky can’t help his small yelp the first time Hutch’s dick brushes up against him and then he reaches back and gets his hand in to help, and it’s a rush, all just as animalistic for a moment as either of them really expected, and then Starsky gets his hips at the right angle and Hutch heaves forward through the guiding ring of Starsky’s fist and he’s  _ in _ and it’s…briefly a lot, momentarily overwhelming, but then he groans and shifts because it’s  _ good _ too, after all this waiting. Even if all Starsky can do is press his cheek into the bed and try not to do any pleasured howling himself. 

Hutch is glad to do all the howling, and the grunting and the snarling and the whining. There’s no finesse in how Hutch moves, not like this, but he is as careful as he can be. His cock is slightly slick from its sheath, so it’s the girth that’s more the problem, and they’re both glad for the pre-stretching. 

It’s a slow slide, opening him up, still, and Hutch growls at Starsky’s several aborted attempts at movement. Finally he opens his jaw over the back of Starsky’s neck, pinning him to the bed—no teeth, unless he moves—so he’ll just stop risking hurting himself with moving. Hutch whines a little, begging him to be still, as he finally works his knot into him. 

Starsky does go still, mostly at how sudden it is rather than any of the warnings or anything else. It’s good—better than the toy because it’s Hutch—and it’s already getting bigger, even before Hutch has really managed to give more than a couple really good thrusts, but maybe that’s just how it goes. Starsky goes still and then shifts just a little to widen his knees out a little, and reaches down to give himself a couple of lazy strokes, then Hutch moves a little more, and it’s like every part of him is stuck somewhere between that swelling knot and his dick and Starsky makes a faint, high-pitched noise as it gets bigger still, big enough to pinch and draw a desperate “Ow, ow, ow,” out of him, but then immediately he tips over, clawing at the blankets just as much as Hutch had as he rockets over the edge, making a noise like all the air was punched out of him even as he empties himself out into his own fist.

If Starsky’s quiet, Hutch is loud, howling as he comes in a long, steady stream, and his knot finishes inflating until they’re locked together. The sensation of pleasure is over quickly for Hutch, and all his focus returns to Starsky, even as he’s sure he’s still coming, still filling him up. Teeth are replaced with tongue, and Hutch whines softly, licking sweat from the back of Starsky’s neck, adjusting himself and Starsky so they can relax a little. 

Starsky shifts and his knot expands a little more, wrenching a gasp from him as it presses down on his prostate, though Hutch does his best to soothe him. 

For all that the wolf doesn’t process emotions the same way as the man, Hutch feels perfectly at ease, perfectly loved and in love. He licks up into Starsky’s hair, grooming him, and tucks all four feet in closer around him, holding him snugly, and rumbling his approval, his pride, his love. 

Starsky actually chuckles a little, practically a giggle, even though it feels weird to move at all even just as much as it takes to laugh with Hutch inside him like this, and Starsky goes still, sinking down a little to wait it out. “Your neighbors are gonna need one heck of an explanation.”

Reaching back at the indignant, soft and somewhat tired sounding wuff, Starsky runs his hand through the fur on the back of Hutch’s neck, like he might his partner’s hair. “You feel better? I think I do.”

Hutch ruffs once in agreement, and licks behind Starsky’s ear before nuzzling up against the back of his neck. Starsky must be feeling full from how he keeps trying to shift, but he still gives the best ear rubs, which Hutch doesn't fail to appreciate. Hutch sighs, and whines a little like he can't contain himself, and settles down to keep watch over him. 

Of course he feels better, but he felt better the moment the wolf saw Starsky tonight, saw him and knew that they  _ could _ , that Starsky  _ wanted to _ . It’s the extent of abstract thought for the wolf to recognize mate as a state of being, not an act, but sometimes, like tonight, the wolf grasps it better than the human. He shuts human-Hutch out until morning, enjoying Starsky too much to share. 

They don't know how long they're locked together, since Starsky isn't exactly eager for the knot to go the other way, even once it has shrunk, and they actually fall asleep like this for a few hours. There's a mess between his legs when Hutch finally pulls out, which Hutch does his best to help clean up, front paws heavy on Starsky’s thighs to keep him still while he licks and licks. And between Hutch’s tongue on his asshole and the phantom pressure still weighing on his prostate, Starsky gets hard again without really meaning to, and Hutch responds in kind. 

So they repeat the exercise, a little less frantic this time, and easier, as Starsky figures out to jam a few pillows under his hips so there’s not quite so much strain on his knees and so he has something to rub off on, and both of them collapse into a sated mess. At some point Starsky manages to clean both of them somewhat off with the wet cloth Hutch had left for them—there's sort of no cleaning up the sheer volume of spunk inside him with one towel, but it's good enough to allow him to sleep, anyway—before he tugs on a pair of boxers and cuddles up with Hutch as the big spoon for once, his arm tucked around the wolf’s chest as they both surrender to exhaustion.

“The world didn’t even end,” Starsky says, rubbing Hutch’s ears. “How ‘bout that.” 

That's for human Hutch to hear, but he's buried deep: wolf Hutch doesn't really get sarcasm, so he rumbles indignantly, and starts licking Starsky’s hair until he makes him stop. Then he sighs in comfortable accord and shuffles over slightly so he's more on top of Starsky, all four limbs bracketing him safely, like a huge, heavy (and insisting on snuggling) fur coat.  _ Of course the world didn't end _ , the wolf thinks, as far as wolves think in human language and chlichés, _ It's just beginning.  _

…

Starsky wakes to something happening between his legs that he does not like. He’s tender there, and if Hutch in either form thinks they’re going  _ again _ , he’s got another thing coming. 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, it’s me,” Hutch says, resting a hand that feels human, though it feels bigger, somehow, to Starsky’s lower back. “Easy, don’t move. I’m trying to get you cleaned up, but, ah, you’re kinda— _ glued _ …” 

Is Hutch  _ laughing _ ? 

Starsky just gives a massive groan, shoving Hutch off as he peels the also-stuck-blanket off his side and emerges from the funk and mess of the bedsheets by sheer determination, though he does wind up leaving some body hair behind. 

“Ouch!” Hutch says sympathetically, watching Starsky pry himself up from the mess and stagger towards the bathroom. 

He’s sore, not from the most expected reason—not from  _ only _ the most expected reason—but from all the exertion required for marathon sex with his partner, twice. Blearily, he makes a grab for Hutch, and drags him into his own bathroom.

“I always knew you were a masochist, Starsk, but I was gonna—”

“Turn the shower on,” he orders, because knobs seem too complicated. “No, on second thought, run a bath.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Hutch says, trying not to laugh, though it’s hard when he can’t stop grinning—at how disheveled Starsky looks, yes—but also at how happy he is, both sides of him are, and at how (begrudgingly, now) happy Starsky is, too. He starts filling up the bath with warm-hot water, and fills it with a generous helping of the bath salts he uses after a tough workout. 

When he gets up from the tub, Starsky is just leaning against the sink, looking dead on his feet, and Hutch feels a pang of tenderness towards his partner. He kisses his forehead. “C’mere, babe. You get in the bath, I’ll bring you some coffee, okay?” 

“Nope,” Starsky says, refusing to let go of Hutch as he gets in the tub, and he hisses just a little as it stings but it’s a good feeling, Starsky thinks, and the warm water does a lot for his mood as it soaks away the worst of the mess. He tugs Hutch in with him, only belatedly hoping Hutch hasn’t done anything so silly as try to put clothes on. He’s satisfied when Hutch splashes at least halfway in and then puts his arms around him so he really has no other option but to just get in. “You need a bath too, anyway. And it’s warmer with two.”

“Starsk, I was just—” Hutch begins, but Starsky’s probably well past due his turn to be the bossy one. “Okay, shove over, I'm getting in. You let me know when you want coffee.”

Hutch slides in to one side, pressing them chest to chest, offering his arm and shoulder for Starsky to lean against but letting Starsky arrange them however he wants. He has to admit this is better. “How you doing, Gordo?”

“Stiff. Sore. You know, well used,” Starsky says, shifting and getting comfortable with his arms around Hutch, leaning on him. “Like I’ve been having sex with my insatiable werewolf boyfriend all night. Which I gotta say is definitely a unique type and location of sore.”

He kisses Hutch again. “How ‘bout you?”

“Starsky, I—” Hutch beams, his whole face lighting up so bright it looks it might crumple into a sob at any moment. Starsky is so beautiful in his arms, droplets clinging to his long dark lashes, and he smells like Hutch, still, which just delights him. He has to stop and just admire him, and then he has to stop and kiss him. He sloshes water up over Starsky’s shoulder, checking for bruising or scratches anywhere, but it looks like the wolf was a perfect gentleman, for a wolf, anyway. “Starsky, I have the greatest boyfriend in the whole world. How do you think that feels?” 

“A unique type and location of sore?” Starsky guesses, but he kisses Hutch on the cheek. “Nah, I think I know exactly how that feels.”

Hutch shakes his head and kisses Starsky’s forehead again. “So did I rock your world or do I have to spend all day apologizing?” 

“You better not apologize,” Starsky says. “‘Cause I expect you to do it all again tomorrow.”

He watches Hutch’s expression fold into disbelief, and then grins at him, wide. “Well, maybe next week, instead.”

Hutch laughs, from his belly, the kind of laugh only Starsky can ever get out of him, and he winds his arms around Starsky’s neck and really kisses him. “It’s a date.” 


End file.
